


Mirrors

by purple_cube



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:09:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_cube/pseuds/purple_cube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Porn Battle XIV, for the prompts 'trust' and 'knife'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirrors

 

_It’s not for everyone. Being in the field._  
  
She knows that there are those out there who pity her. They see her as broken, weak, fragile. The field agent so traumatised that she became a secretary.   
  
But if she’s honest, she pities _them_. She watches them, registers the fear as they leave M’s office with their orders – and the relief as they return to sit through yet another debriefing.   
  
And she watches _him_. There is no fear, nor relief. Most of the time, there is nothing but the impenetrable mask that he’s perfected over the years. But just occasionally, the mask slips, and she sees the truth.   
  
He sits stiffly in her office as he waits for M, a smile playing on his lips as he watches her.   
  
“Are you laughing at me, 007?” she asks light-heartedly, not bothering to look up from her pile of paperwork.  
  
“Never,” is the short reply.   
  
“Care to explain that smirk that you’re trying to suppress, then?” This time she does look at him, and is surprised to see his expression turn sober.  
  
“I was just thinking about how odd it is that the woman who almost killed me has become the lynchpin of MI6, almost without anyone noticing.”   
  
She doesn’t attempt to hide her own smile.   
  
“I’m just the secretary,” she replies demurely, adding a flutter of lashes for good measure.  
  
His lips part, but any response is cut short by the sound of a door opening. They both look across the room to see M’s figure fill the doorway as he beckons his agent over.   
  
“You are anything but that,” Bond mutters as he makes his way past her desk and into the adjoining office, the grin returning.  
  
*  
  
He shows up at her door after Morocco. After destruction and death and another agent lost, his expression seeming that little bit more haggard than it had done on the day he left. She lets him in wordlessly, and he follows, his eyes drawn to the floor. She leads him to the bathroom, glancing up occasionally as she switches on the shower for him. He doesn’t meet her gaze.  
  
Later, she’s the one who goes to him. _Not pity sex,_ she thinks as she rides him slowly, intimately, on the couch. He reaches between them to stroke her where their bodies meet. Her rhythm quickens in response to his, and she closes her eyes and gasps as he guides her to her orgasm. He thrusts up and into her as her muscles squeeze around him, and he comes with his own short groan, fingers gripping her waist so hard that she knows they’ll leave bruises.   
  
She leans forward to settle her forehead against the crook of his neck, listening as his breathing slows.  
  
“Why?” he asks quietly.   
  
“Trust,” she replies after a moment. “You’re a mirror. You see things how they are. You tell it like it is.”  
  
She feels his mouth stretch into a smile against her brow.   
  
“I’d do that anyway, regardless of sex.”  
  
“I know.” Her gaze focuses on a scar on his chest, and she wonders if it’s from her bullet. She traces it with a forefinger in acknowledgement before continuing.   
  
“But you’re not a bad fuck, either.”   
  
She watches the scar rise and fall with his short puff of laughter. And somehow that makes it seem smaller, less significant than it had done a moment earlier.  
  
*  
  
They’re not a couple; they both screw whoever they want. Sometimes he turns up at her door, and they simply drink and talk and fall asleep. At other times, there are no words.  
  
After Hong Kong, and another disappearance that has her moments away from listing him as missing in action, he doesn’t come to her for several days. Her gaze doesn’t linger when he passes on his way to meetings with M, but her thoughts do.  
  
A week passes, until she comes home to find him sat at the dining table in the dark, his hand resting on a closed photograph album.   
  
“Your family seem nice,” he says without looking up.  
  
She starts to remove her jacket before answering. “I had a happy childhood,” she responds. “But things fell apart during my teenage years.”  
  
He nods in understanding. “They often do. Why else would we end up where we are?”  
  
She knows that he doesn’t expect an answer, and instead turns to switch on the light in the hallway. “Are you coming upstairs?”  
  
A moment passes before he rises from the chair and follows her.  
  
They don’t fuck, don’t even touch, choosing instead to simply rest side by side, each drowning in their own thoughts.  
  
When she turns to him, her breath catches in her throat at his lost expression.  
  
“How do you feel?”   
  
It’s not something that she would say to many men, and certainly not a question she ever expected to ask James Bond. And yet, it seems right for their relationship, such that it is.  
  
“Empty,” he says quietly. “Soulless.”  
  
She leans over him and reaches for the small dagger that she keeps beneath the mattress. His eyes widen slightly as the blade glistens in the dim light.  
  
“Do you trust me?”  
  
His response is swift – and certain.   
  
“Always.”  
  
“Then turn over.”  
  
He does so, silently. She slides the tip of the knife in a steady vertical line between his shoulder blades, slow but not with any force. Simply a warning of what’s to come.  
  
“Ready?” she whispers.  
  
“Do it.”  
  
Beneath her thighs, she feels the rest of his body tense. She repeats the motion, this time applying enough pressure to draw blood.   
  
His muscles stay taut even after she finishes. She leans down to run her lips over the cut, absorbing his blood as she does so.   
  
“Not empty,” she declares emphatically.  
  
He begins to move, and she shifts to give him space to turn onto his back. He’s hard, and she starts to rub herself against him through their underwear.   
  
His attention is fixed on her lips, and she only needs to edge forward a fraction before he reaches up to meet her, capturing her mouth with his. He lingers, licking and swallowing, before tasting her once more.  
  
When he does release her, she slides her hand between them, shifting clothing until she can slide onto his cock.   
  
There is nothing calm about them now, and they both move frantically, his hips thrusting upward to meet every grind of hers.   
  
He lifts his back a fraction from the bed, and she instinctively slides a hand into the gap, searching for the tear in his skin. It spurs him on, his movement becoming more erratic until he comes with a shout.   
  
She keeps her own rhythm through his orgasm, until his fingers join her own to pull her over the cliff alongside him.   
  
Breathless, she slides onto the mattress beside him, dimly aware of his arm reaching across to cover her body with the sheet.  
  
“Not empty,” she murmurs, eyes fluttering shut.

 


End file.
